Diarmuid had heard Fionn speak of you with a pride to his tongue, haired once browned now a grayed color yet upon his face were marks of sword and battle as Man of the Fianna.

You were the fairest of Ireland and its nobles, the heir to the king himself who had promised your graceful hand to the old Fionn.

Diarmuid felt as if the gods pierced him with his own blade, to spill his innards to the world and the words his heart wished to cry out to release the venom and bile that soaked him.

Had Fionn known what Diarmuid had felt, he was sure he’d meet the pale faces of his ancestors and the phantom like divine to greet him with bloodied and soiled arms as he passed on.

He’d fallen for you, prior to the feast to announce you and Fionn’s betrothal. He had been overcome with more desire than his heart had known, it ached, it burned, sickest of all it hurt in a way he desired more of.

Now did he make his attempts to avoid you during this banquet, he was ashamed—distraught with his own betrayal to that of Great Fionn, whom shown him nothing but care and respect as his greatest warrior.

Fionn, The Fianna and the Irish nobles gathered in feast and celebration as to celebrate the engagement of The Fianna and the King of Ireland’s heir, a glorious thing for both.

How it was a poison to his heart where blood did pump, cursed by his own foster-father, the great god of love—forced to know his heart betrayed the loyalties and wish it be him to hold the title of husband to your blessed name without his loyalty to halt him.

Diarmuid stood within the corner, shrouded by thoughts and shades to consume him whole, as if death itself wished to whisper into his ear and embrace him for nightfall.

He was a loyal man, a warrior of Fionn with a facade of perfected stone. He could not fall like this, no, he wouldn’t allow himself—no matter the temptation to bite the bitter fruit.